The wing of the women’s quarters set aside for elders and widows was beautifully appointed. A maidservant showed Arwa and Gulshera to a seating hall that was shared by the household elders. It opened to a small garden of fruit trees, with a fountain at its center. Gulshera and Arwa walked out into the garden. The air was full of the wafting scent of citrus and water.
“You gave this up for the hermitage,” Arwa murmured, gazing around in awe.
“You think this is paradise, I suppose?”
There was a sharpness in Gulshera’s voice that made Arwa bite her own tongue, holding back her reflexive retort. She waited in silence.
Eventually Gulshera sighed and rubbed her knuckles between her eyes, as if forcing a headache away.
“Court has teeth, Arwa,” she said. “Teeth and claws both. Don’t forget it. Allow it to do so, and court will hurt you terribly.”
“You served court even from Numriha,” Arwa pointed out. “You returned here willingly.”
“I expect you have a point to make,” said Gulshera flatly.
“Princess Jihan could have ordered you to return, and you would have done it for duty and political gain. But I don’t believe you returned for that alone.”
Gulshera gave her a look of exasperated pity. “Despite your widowhood, you remain a child,” she said. “I returned for love, yes. Love has a longer reach than politics. It can hold you fast across any distance. But when it comes to the imperial family… Arwa, they cannot be disentangled. Love and politics are one and the same. I returned with you for political gain, and for Jihan’s affection both, because one cannot be earned without the other.”
Arwa remained silent for a moment, until she could stand it no longer. She was clamoring with questions.
“The brother the princess spoke of,” Arwa began tentatively. “Is he…?”
“He is a blessed,” said Gulshera. “Entirely unacknowledged, of course.”
A blessed. Any other child would have been called a bastard. Arwa had been, many a time.Behave, Arwa, or people will realize you are a bastard. Please, dear one. I want better for you than your blood.
The Emperor did not acknowledge illegitimate children. It was rare for anyone to do so. Only the Maha had ever honored them, drawing the fatherless and abandoned into his service, naming them his mystics, his closest servants. But men were not as generous as the Maha, who had forged his people an Empire. Oh, Arwa’s father had acknowledged her and her sister both, loved them and honored them, but his actions had been unusual. The fate of other illegitimate children had been held over her as a warning often enough for her to know that many ended up discarded, with no father to shelter them, no mother to rear them.
Society had no place for aberrant blood.
But the Emperor’s blood had greater value than any mere mortal’s: To be an illegitimate Emperor’s child was to have the makings of greatness. Illegitimate imperial sons had become great governors and generals. Illegitimate imperial daughters had served in the households of their legitimate sisters, or made great marriages, bringing the bright stroke of their lucky blood into many a noble family’s lineage.
Still…my brother. Those words should not have been spoken. They were a claim Jihan had no right to make on an unacknowledged son of her father. Yet she had.
“Can you tell me anything at all about him?” Arwa asked.
“I knew him, when he was a small boy,” Gulshera said. “He and his mother…” A pause. “The Empress was fond of them both. But Jihan loved the boy especially. When his mother was—removed—she claimed him and protected him.”
“Removed,” Arwa repeated.
“Many people were, after the Maha’s death,” said Gulshera. “Arwa—I do not know what the boy’s work involves. I do not wish to know.” Her tone brooked no argument. “Whatever he asks—obey him. That is all you can do.”
Night came. Arwa could not sleep. She stayed dressed and placed her veil over her hair, readying herself to face the princess’s blessed brother, a man and a stranger to her. Then she sat, cross-legged, on the edge of her divan and waited for a guardswoman to collect her, as Jihan had promised.
The room she had been provided with was in the wing for elders, but was far removed from the gentle peace of the fruit garden. Arwa understood the need for that. If she was to leave her room in secrecy and silence on a regular basis, she could not be close to the other widows, where her comings and goings would be noticed.
A guardswoman rapped lightly on the door, then entered.
“Lady Arwa,” she said, bowing her head. “Follow me.”
Arwa stood and followed the guardswoman from the room.
“What is your name?” Arwa asked.
“Eshara, my lady,” the guardswoman said, as she led Arwa along a winding corridor, barely lit by silver lanterns upon the walls. “If you need me, I am on watch in this wing on most nights. If not me, then Reya will be here. No doubt you’ll meet her tomorrow night.”
The guardswoman stopped. On the wall beside her was a large tapestry. She moved it to one side, revealing a hidden door. She drew it open, and gestured for Arwa to enter. Arwa did.
